


the reason birds can fly

by philthestone



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, anyways this is a happy universe where no one was needlessly killed. thanks, i honestly feel like i jerk not tagging EVERYONE ELSE but EVERYONE ELSE is there, there are .... too many ppl to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 22:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: Henry wonders, absently, in between flipping through the pages of his giant history book and teasing Killian, if there would ever be a point where he’d actually have toexplainall this to someone. The only other people he knows really well who are his age are Grace Jefferson and Violet, and both ofthemcan totally understand the concept of “my aunt who is actually my step-grandmother is the local librarian and she has decided to employ half the cast ofPeter Panout of the goodness of her heart”.Two months later, on the eve of his graduating the eleventh grade, Emma says, “So, have you thought about college?” and Henry thinks,crap.





	the reason birds can fly

**Author's Note:**

> CANT BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS MONSTER  
> now i can finally wash my hands of this show completely lmao
> 
> anyways -- that was mostly a joke. things u need to know:
> 
> the original premise of this fic is inspired by alchemistc's delightful fic "the worst", as is the name "amelia". everything else unraveled from out of my own mess of a brain. robin's alive bc who needs sadness in their life really, and also ive cherry picked the current canon disaster (spoken semi-lovingly; i love this stupid show but there is really so MUCH that a person can remain non-bitter thru) bc thats what i DO, babey
> 
> title's from jm barrie bc Thats The Kinda Guy I Am. reviews are the wonderful things in life, dear friends.

He gets Cool Kid Status within, like, the first ten minutes of being on campus, which is a thing that has pretty much never happened to him before in his life. So when it _does_ happen, halfway between clutching his map and student ID, peppering his RA with questions and moving boxes of books into the cramped dorm – well, it’s _weird_ , okay?

It’s also definitely because his mom looks like one of those tough badasses from straight out of an action movie, it’s just the way she _stands_ , pretty much, and also both of his step-dads have tattoos.

God, he’s gonna kill all of them.

See, the thing is, moving away for college should be normal. It should, in fact, be the normalest thing he’s ever done, which is actually a very easy achievement considering most of his teenage life has been the patent antithesis of _normality_. The bar is set very, very, _hugely_ , _disproportionately_ low. Moving away for college passes without even _trying_.

Not that he has any problems with the way his life’s been going, aside from the occasional wish that people wouldn’t Almost Die – or, indeed, Actually Die – as often as they do, because there’s only so many times your mom should travel down to the underworld, or your other mom’s evil alter ego try to steal your baby uncle out of spite because the whole town is under a curse. No: Henry is, quite literally, born for this kind of thing, and loves his family for and despite it, without hesitation.

Sometimes less than others, though. Like when they _all_ decide that it’s a genius move to _collectively_ come and help him move four boxes of stuff into a college dorm.

And he’s gonna kill all of them, because he’s been trying to ask his really nice-looking RA questions for the past ten minutes and she keeps getting distracted, and can he _really_ blame her, is the question? Robin’s decided to only wear a tank top for the arduous task of carrying one ( _one_ ) box of stuff up a flight of stairs, and Regina is grilling a trapped and unfortunate-looking cafeteria lady about food options, and God, is Gramps _seriously_ putting his leg up against the hood of the truck right now, his hair is like _literally shining golden_ in the sun, and –

“How’s it going, kid?” asks Emma – the mom not putting the fear of (God? The Evil Queen? Impeccable Pantsuits?) _something_ into lunch ladies, and she’s an awful traitor because she’s grinning like the amount of effort it’s taking to Not Laugh is herculean in nature. 

(Henry has a sinking feeling it’s because Killian and Gramps are trying to out-box-carry each other up the stairs and neither of them have noticed the more-than-curious moms straying away from their cars to marvel at the fact that there’s a man wearing _leather pants,_ of all things, in the parking lot.)

His mom smirks; Henry’s pretty sure Grandma’s two seconds away from siccing the toddler on one of the Lingering Mothers. He sighs and turns back to his really-nice-looking RA, who startles slightly when he repeats his questions for the third time.

At least, Henry thinks, no one’s died yet. Nothing’s exploded. As far as he knows, there haven’t been any crazy witches or sorcerers or queens or flying monkeys, and Grandfather – who insisted on coming and mercifully brought his own car because Henry _could not imagine_ how awful the car ride up would have been if he’d been sitting in the same cramped vehicular space that housed Killian and Gramps’s off-tune singing to the rap music on the radio, why are they _like_ this – is mostly behaving himself. Henry’s pretty sure he’s been scanning the dorm building with narrowed eyes from his position by the car for the past half hour, clutching his cane, but as mentioned previously, Henry is blissfully certain no one’s been found dead in the quad, yet. Even Regina finally seems pleased with the proceedings, standing there in her pantsuited glory and actually _smiling_ at one of the other freshmen who’s finding his way around with his parents. 

Things are going – well.

And then Killian straightens up and his damned hair is all mussed and one of the girls on the other side of the quad actually _sighs_ and Henry’s pretty sure the guy who’s going to be his new roommate is blushing, and he groans.

Emma laughs, crossing her arms over her front like she hasn’t spent the morning picking at the locks on the building to make sure they’re solid for break-ins and emergency exits alike.

“Is everything alright?” asks his RA, and she really looks _so_ nice, and Emma laughs even harder.

 _Traitor_.

**

What Henry finds out very quickly is that life as a creative writing major means you end up having to analyze fairy tales a lot from, like, an objective third-person perspective. “Objective third-person” and “fairy tales” have never been words that’ve gone together in Henry’s life. The thing is, the majority of the population of the world would deem you certifiably insane if you put up your hand and said, “Actually, the first time the Evil Queen used the disguising spell on herself, she didn’t look like a creepy old lady and she had a terrible experience with the villagers and Snow White saved her life – what, no, of course I don’t know this from first-hand experience, why do you ask?”

The second thing Henry finds out very quickly is that even after monsters and witches and wizards and lots and lots of Death, making friends is suddenly a much more daunting task than he would have once thought. He’s never really – well, he _has_. He _has_ had friends, his own age, like – well, there’s Violet, isn’t there, and Grace has always been someone he can count on to read a good book with in the library. But his only memories of making solid, longish-lasting friendships when in a totally new environment, all by himself, are from New York. _New York_ , like it’s a whole other realm. 

It’s not very reassuring.

So everything’s a little … tricky, Henry thinks. _Tricky_ is a good, solid word. Both the friendship thing and the creative writing major, which was a lovely idea, in theory, until Henry finds himself biting his tongue a lot in his Children’s Lit class. He picks up the terrible habit of chewing viciously on his pencil to stop himself from doing anything stupid like bursting out laughing or throwing _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ at his professor’s face.

Everyone _did_ say college was an adjustment, though he cannot actually off the top of his head think of a single family member who has legitimately _been_ to college.

But they’re really trying, he knows, so he’s really trying too.

His roommate Bryce, at least, is slowly becoming something like a friend, if only from daily exposure. Bryce doesn’t understand why Henry likes fairy tales so much. Well, Henry isn’t sure any of his university friends – and this is speaking in hypotheticals, because not many have been made quite yet but _no, Leroy, that doesn’t mean I’m a loser_ – could ever. Like. _Actually_ understand.

But Bryce is nice and always cleaning his glasses and knows all about Alexander the Great and Commodus and the fall of the Roman Empire, and sometimes when Henry’s really stressed about midterm papers or weekly quizzes Bryce will spin on his rolling office chair he brought with him and toss jellybeans at Henry while they test each other on Kurt Vonnegut and the French Revolution, respectively. Henry likes Bryce, and Henry trusts Bryce to help edit his essays, and for now – well, maybe that’s enough to ask for out of a friend.

**

Henry thinks that of all the things he could be doing, breaking into a locked vending machine at the crack of midnight (it’s certifiably not dawn yet, thank God, but Henry really likes that particular expression) is not one of the most productive. Then again, the rez cafeteria downstairs is closed, and there’s a group of ten starving college students upstairs, and no one has any money for pizza, and –

Henry knows how to pick locks?

“Dude,” whispers Bryce, hovering above him and clutching his phone, which currently has the flashlight app open and running. “How are you _doing_ that?”

Henry realizes belatedly that his tongue is peeking out between his teeth in concentration and he pulls it in, tilting his head to get a better angle at the padlock – God, how ancient are these people? – that’s been put over the back of the machine. He leans backwards just a little, twists his hand, and – _bingo_.

The reality of the situation is that most of his immediate _and_ extended family are actually trained professionals when it comes to the whole “take things that are technically not yours” concept, heroism notwithstanding, whether it’s out of necessity or a misplaced sense of honour or just because they like the edgy aesthetic of it all.

“It’s all in the tumblers,” Henry tells his pajama-wearing roommate, shuffling awkwardly back to his sock-clad feet and pulling at the lock. “And, also, I am _never_ doing it again.”

“Seriously?” Bryce moves forward to pull the back of the vending machine open, his teeth flashing in the phone light that’s currently blinding Henry. “You have some super spy moves up your sleeves and you’re not gonna _use_ them? Where’d you even learn that stuff, anyway?”

“My mom – I mean, my d – it’s, um, both of them? Listen, Bryce, this is the only time we’re doing it, and _only_ because we have a study group who’s in need.”

“We’re taking the stuff from the back of the vending machine,” Bryce reminds him cheerfully, which is, Henry thinks, remarkably unfair considering how nervous he’d been five seconds ago. He’s a lot more at ease now that they’ve actually _broken_ the lock, carefully plucking three bags of cheetos from the top rung and dropping them into the plastic bag Henry’s holding. “So no one’ll even notice. Chill out, Mills. Besides, we’re broke college students and these vending machines are owned by awful corporate conglomerates, or whatever. We’re the underdogs, here.”

Henry huffs out a breath and glances back down the hallway, swinging his hands at his sides. Technically, this is not the worst thing he could be doing. Technically, it’s not like half his relatives haven’t done a lot _worse_. Besides, he guesses that it’s kind of a bonding moment – there’s always something unbreakable formed between two people who’ve snuck down a corridor and broken into a vending machine (palace treasury, giant’s den, witch’s hut, whatever) together, as any self-respecting fairy tale character would tell you – and even if both of them laughed nervously the whole way downstairs and couldn’t tell you _why_ they’d _volunteered_ , he’s pretty sure he’s glad that he’s doing this with his bespectacled roommate. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t only telling Regina about this on pain of a horrible, horrible death.

“Alright. But I only agreed to this because we’re paying arms and legs for our tuition and we need nutrients to keep studying, okay?”

“Uh huh,” says Bryce, counting the Twix bars in his hands. “Do we need three or four?”

“Four,” says Henry immediately. “I’m serious, Bryce. Stealing is only a good guy thing when you’re doing it for those in desperate need.”

(“Just calling in,” says his stepfather, and he’s sure that one of these days he’s going to actually _feel_ how odd that is, but as it is, Henry holds his phone in front of him, adjusting it so that his image isn’t lopsided. Robin’s smiling face is half outside of the camera’s lens in a fashion unique to what many of Henry’s classmates would claim applies only to their grandparents, laugh lines tracing down his cheeks. “D’you have a minute to spare? Roland’s been dying to say hello all week.”

“I’ve got a couple minutes before class,” says Henry, and he _also_ wonders when having a seven-year-old younger sibling is going to stop being a mixture of annoying and delightful. _Probably never_ , he thinks, as Robin’s camera shakes and there’s a loud and excited voice crowing on the other side.

“Henry!” Roland’s round face pops into frame, grabbing the camera away from his dad. “Hi! I miss you!”

“Miss you too, Roland,” says Henry, passing a flock of geese that are annoying students who are brave enough to face the general wetness of the quad. “How’s school?”

Roland makes an especially expressive face, somehow conveying everything Henry needs to know without words, and Henry has to laugh – he’d always loved school, but he supposes that Roland, who spent his earliest primary years being homeschooled in the middle of the forest, probably thought he had better things to do than sit in a classroom for eight hours a day.

“Gotcha, kid,” says Henry, and Roland breaks into a wide smile again, his stupid cute dimples taking up most of the screen. 

“Gina taught me how to make lasagna yesterday,” he tells Henry solemnly, and Henry half-jogs across the street and makes a mental note to ask his mom how that went. “And there was a big bonfire by the dwarves’s bean plants, and Little John took me hiking in the woods, and did you know –”

And the thing is, Henry shouldn’t really miss them as much as he does. He’s supposed to be out in the world, living his life, _newfound independence_ – all that stuff and nonsense that Killian scoffs at and Emma pokes Killian in the ribs for scoffing at, and. Well. 

He tells Roland that he’s late for class and grins once more at Robin’s smiling face and sincere, “Stay out of trouble, will you?”

It’s an oft-tossed-around platitude that Henry’s pretty sure no one actually expects him to keep, which quite possibly only makes him want to have the most mundane possible college experience _ever_.)

And here he is, breaking into padlocks on a vending machine.

He wonders if Robin would count this as trouble.

“You mean like, Robin Hood-style? Take from the rich and give to the poor?”

Henry snorts, reaching over and grabbing a bag of skittles from over Bryce’s shoulder.

“Something like that.”

Matt Turnbull from down the hall announces them his real-life, actual heroes when they return, armed with a bag full of pilfered junk food and nervous grins. 

Bryce says, “Yeah, this sonuva bitch knows how to pick locks and never _told_ us,” and Henry feels his face heat up uncomfortably, because. Oh. Oh no. This is possibly worse than people knowing that his mother catches criminals for a living like a regular badass, or the mysterious and unanimously-agreed-upon fact that his stepfathers’ tattoos are _cool_.

“Yes,” says Henry unnecessarily. “That is a thing I can do. Which I’m never doing again.”

Matt grins and Cathy Simpson rolls over onto her stomach, philosophy notes scattered around her, and asks for a Twix bar.

Henry wonders if he’s making friends.

**

He meets Amelia in Children’s Lit one sunny October morning when Henry’s trying really hard to focus on the alleged themes of manufactured childhood in _Alice in Wonderland_ and not on the fact that the Queen of Hearts was once his step-great- _great_ grandmother of sorts. Amelia is taller than he is and wears thick-rimmed glasses and superhero shirts, and Amelia sticks her hand straight in the air, chin jutting out, and tells the professor that she’s read _Alice_ five times over and his interpretation of the text is horribly sexist, thanks very much, clear and loud in the middle of the musty lecture hall.

Henry sticks his own hand up thirty seconds later to defend her standpoint, and he really _wants_ to say that it’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Amelia is funny. Amelia is kind. Amelia has her nose buried in biology notes most of the time, but she took Children’s Lit because she loves fairy tales too, and Amelia is the kind of person Henry can sit on the grass with for hours and talk to about Feelings and Henry wonders if this is what it feels like to have a Best Friend who isn’t an adult, or your mom, or the local therapist.

The thing is, Amelia tells him all about how her brother Sal is almost-engaged to his longtime boyfriend, or how her mother likes to string up Christmas lights at all times of the year, or how her cousins make her dad’s bushy eyebrows twitch whenever they come over for dinner. Henry thinks about how just last year, his mom stopped a semi-apocalypse with her Real Live Actual Magic Powers, or how Grandma was stressing the other day because Neal threw a temper tantrum and accidentally blew all the fuses with magical powers, or how their idea of a family tradition is to go out and watch the fourth of July fireworks across the bay from the prow of, like, a literal pirate ship.

Good times.

The thing is, Henry doesn’t know how to tell any of this to Amelia. So he tells her about the particular sardonic way Emma can smile, or how Gramps – _Uncle David_ , with a smile that’s become convincing through practice – always smells like snickerdoodles. He tells her how Roland still doesn’t understand the concept of knocking on doors (“Ugh, younger siblings,” says Amelia in the universally sympathetic tones) and how when he stays with Emma and Killian their front hallway always has someone’s boots laying around for you to trip over. 

Amelia grins and hums and giggles and makes jokes in all the right places, as delighted as any friend is when you share with them parcels of your messy family, tiny bits and pieces of the people who’ve been there to see you become _you_. Sharing means trust, and Amelia shares heedlessly, almost _too_ much. Henry shares as much as he can and always feels like he’s cheated her by not offering the full thing.

She’s hanging out with him and Bryce in their room, the two of them reciting lines from _The Hobbit_ for their upcoming quiz, Bryce tossing a hackey sack up and down in the spinny chair. It’s almost midnight (it’s usually almost midnight) and they’re really getting more giggling done than studying, and Amelia suddenly perks up, head swinging upwards from where it was hanging upside down off of Bryce’s bed a moment before.

“I forgot!” she says, stumbling to her feet and nearly collapsing onto a still-giggling Henry when she stands up too fast. “I brought –” An unceremonious yanking open of the mini-fridge, and _there_ “– snacks!”

She wields a plateful of sliced apples and caramel dip into the air.

Bryce whoops, as loudly as one does at midnight when presented with apples and caramel, but Henry makes a face and shakes his head at the plate.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“For real?” Amelia plops down beside him again on the bed, feet swinging. “What, you have something against fruit?”

(He ignores the pointed look towards where she _knows_ he’s got a stash of Poptarts stowed under the laundry pile.)

“Just –” Henry shrugs. “Apples.”

“Apples,” says Amelia.

“It’s a family thing.”

And because it’s midnight, and they’re in a _hell_ of a giggly mood, they all quite abruptly dissolve into laughter again.

Maybe, Henry thinks, for now – this is enough.

**

Henry’s tying and untying a piece of string in his hands, his fingers slipping through the loops he’s been creating on instinct. There’s still another twenty minutes left until his ten thirty class, and the library’s main floor is chattering and buzzing around him as he tries to focus on the text open in front of him. It’s one of those days, he thinks, where you don’t really want to put in any effort past a pair of sweatpants and the energy it takes to walk to class. Something about the weather outside (bleak, rainy, generally miserable – he’s always hated November, honestly) is putting him on edge, nerves buzzing through his fumbling fingertips. He knows that if he were in Storybrooke, he’d go for a walk to the park with Gramps, maybe play tag with Neal to get it out of his system. He could go ask Archie if he could take Pongo for a run, or ask Grandma for one of her hugs, the kind that are infused with a sort of magic that Henry knows will slowly make the anxiety running through your nerves dissolve into the air above your heads. 

His fingers loop back and forth and he squints at his lecture notes, gasping slightly when he realizes he’s knotted his index finger by accident. He doesn’t even remember where he found the string, but he tells himself he’ll stop playing with it in a second, he just –

Amelia drops into the seat in front of him with a groan.

Henry looks up, his fingers finally stilling. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says, and she categorically lacks any and all of her usual gusto, which is why Henry realizes something is Wrong, capital W, and he leans forward. Like any self-respecting friend would, of course. Even way back when the first curse was still around and Emma thought Mary Margaret was just her roommate, Henry spent many a day watching her perfect the fine art of “leaning over tables to make sure that your friend is Okay”. 

“You okay?” asks Henry, as cautiously as he can manage.

“Yes,” says Amelia, as immediate as Henry’s leaning. But then – “ _No_. I’m legitimately hoping for like, Zeus to strike me into oblivion with a lightning bolt or something.”

“Getting struck down by a god isn’t really fun,” Henry tells her seriously, untangling his fingers from his stray piece of string. “People usually get hurt.” 

“That’s the point,” says Amelia, and Henry huffs.

“Painfully and with a lot of blood. I’ll have nightmares if I have to witness it, Amelia.”

 _If I have to witness it_ again _, Amelia, have some concern for my battered psychological well-being_.

Amelia snorts, but she’s sort of half-smiling, like she thinks Henry’s Serious Face is just a bid to get her to laugh again. And okay, sure, he _was_ being totally serious but Henry’s just gonna go with the “trying to make her laugh” interpretation of things.

His half-done stopper knot falls apart by the edge of his laptop and he leans forward properly, completely invested now, propping his chin in his hands. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Gross,” says Amelia. “Feelings.”

Henry raises an eloquent eyebrow; Regina would be proud of him. But he’s pretty sure Amelia’s responding sigh could fill the sails of the _Jolly_ , and usually Amelia sighing means she’s about to start Spilling, and –

“It’s just – Iman, right? I’ve known her _forever_.”

 _There we go_. 

“She needs to _leave_ that guy, but the second I bring it up, she gets mad at _me_.” Amelia bites her lip, her thumb rubbing furiously at the nail of her forefinger in a way Henry’s coming to realize is a nervous tick. “Like _I’m_ the bad guy, Henry, like – who – God, I know how these things work, but he’s draining her and it _hurts_ to watch.”

She blinks at him, and then looks down at the desk, and then at his discarded coffee cup. (Hot chocolate has been sacrificed, officially, for cheap coffee from the library dispensary. Henry wonders how much else he’ll have to give up before college is over.)

“Um, hey,” says Henry. He quite suddenly feels oddly out of his depth, unqualified – _something_. Most of the people he knows who are in relationships are with their True Loves (he feels like he should be tacking a trademark at the end of that, or something, and _did_ his grandparents invent it – does anyone know?), and so experience of the terrible awful damaging potential of being close to someone is not something he’s ever had to confront straight on. Iman, he knows, is in biochemistry with Amelia and one of her oldest friends, with a bubbly personality that matches her wild black curls and dancing eyes. Just last week, Henry had seen her in the quad, on his way to Creative Writing, and she’d looked – God, she’d looked so _tired_. 

Henry remembers suddenly – four years ago, when Aunt Belle stayed on the _Jolly_ for those couple weeks, how Emma had brushed the hair back from Henry’s forehead, later one night on the couch after a long, long, _exhausting_ day, telling him that he ought to look up to his Aunt Belle for how goddamn strong she was. 

“Hey, listen,” says Henry again, wondering if he should reach over and grab Amelia’s hand. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” mumbles Amelia, with all the awkwardness of someone who isn’t quite sure how much they’re allowed to tell a relatively new friend without it crossing some invisible line.

“It’s not her fault, either,” says Henry reasonably, and he _does_ know enough about this to know that it sucks a lot. “And like, I wish we could go and kick Isaac’s ass, super hard, but that would probably just make things worse.”

“Yeah,” says Amelia, a sarcastic edge creeping into her voice that Henry knows is unintentional and perhaps unstoppable. “Iman’d probably never speak to me again.”

“C’mon –” Henry leans further forward until they’re practically nose to nose, and he gives her a solemn look. Amelia blinks back at him, not at all phased by their proximity, and raises both of her eyebrows back. Henry mirrors her expression. “It’s not a hopeless case. I promise. She’ll realize that you care about her, you know?”

“In theory,” says Amelia. “The thought is somewhere in my brain, kicking around.”

“You just have to show her kindness,” says Henry, feeling, once more, profoundly unqualified. “I mean –” He flounders, for a moment, looking for a good enough reason to give her, something more than just – “That’s how my grandparents deal with things.”

(“So, how are you liking it? Are you learning new and wonderful things?”

His grandmother’s sweet voice is bright and bubbly over the Skype connection, her round cheeks dimpling as she smiles at him. Snow White may have been a princess and a bandit, but Mary Margaret is a school teacher at the very depth of her heart, and it is she who is the most interested by the ins and outs and daily bustle of college life. He still remembers, sitting in her class as she showed them how to construct what she’d dubbed The World’s Most Awesome Baking Soda Volcano, the lot of them gathered around the front desk while she handed out safety goggles and carefully poured the vinegar into the class’s careworn creation. She’d told him, once, when he was looking for places to apply to, that she still has the cursed memories of college life – vague and messy and, thinking back on it, not very like her – but they were there all the same, and she’s always felt a bit of a pang at them not being _real_.

“It’s great, Grandma,” says Henry, shoulders slumped against his pillows on the bottom bunk of the bed. If Regina were here, she’d scold him for a whole hour about his terrible posture. He hopes Grandma doesn’t do anything rash like pass the laptop along. 

“Great?” Grandma laughs, bright and clear. “Come on Henry, you and I _both_ know you can do better than that. What’s your favorite class?”

Henry adjusts his elbows against the pillowcases that he knows Gramps probably helped Grandma make – God, his family is something else – and grins.

“Creative writing.”

“Ah- _ha_ ,” says Grandma, nose scrunch with her smile. “Imaginations running wild, huh?”

“We learned this cool trick in class the other day,” says Henry, and now that he’s talking, he can feel himself slip into the ease of it quickly, the gentle back-and-forth he’s always had with her. He wonders why he ever felt hesitant in the first place. “Like, to actually act out what our characters are saying and doing before writing – we had to stand up and everything.”

“And did everyone look as ridiculous as you probably felt?”

“Oh, _definitely_.” Henry’s grinning widely, now, something warm trickling into his chest. “I miss you guys.”

“Oh, Henry.” Her face softens, and Henry feels his fingers gripping the edges of his laptop. “We miss you too. Here, let me call your grandfather –”

Henry nods and sits up a little straighter – and then the door unlocks and Bryce walks in, hair wet from the rain outside and grinning at him easily, and something in Henry’s chest sinks even as he grins back.

“Henry!”

“Hey, Gr – Uncle David! How’re things?”

He can see the brief flicker of confusion that flashes over Gramps’s barely-forty-year-old face, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. He smiles, and it’s nice and familiar and normal.

“Things are good, Henry. How are you?”

He asks after Neal and if there’s still a problem with the cappuccino machine at the station and if David can still make enough pancakes to feed a whole army when the need arises, and even if he stays up the whole night thinking about weird it was to say _Uncle David_ , there’s always a sense of certainty, stability, that comes from talking to his grandparents.)

“Your grandparents don’t have a friend in a freaking abusive relationship,” mutters Amelia, eyes once again trained on the offensive coffee cup, and Henry feels something in his chest ache.

“Uh,” he says ( _too much too much too much_ ), “I know. But you’d – you’d be surprised. She’ll come around, I promise. You just have to believe in her.”

Like how Snow believed in Regina for so long, he thinks silently – the belief that he emulated. Women, he knows, can be pretty damn strong.

“You have class in ten minutes,” says Amelia after a long quiet moment, and finally she looks up at him. Henry blinks at her. 

“How do you know?”

“You’re my friend?” A small, faint smile finally quirks her lips. “Shoo, Henry Mills. I’ll hold the fort here. I can’t believe you managed to pin down my favorite library booth.”

“You’re my friend,” Henry repeats, parrots back at her, and moves to haphazardly shove his things into his bag. His papers are gonna crumple at the bottom, he knows, but he really _is_ late, and he’s pretty sure Regina would give him a severe look for walking into a class late.

 _Bad form_ , says Killian’s voice in his head, and Henry almost groans as he hoists his backpack over his shoulder.

“Alright, I’m just gonna –”

“Hey Henry?”

Henry pauses, and looks down at Amelia.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He shrugs. “All in a day’s work for us hero types.”

“Loser,” she says affectionately, and Henry tries for a grin.

**

In general, Henry thinks that he’s carrying with him quite a lot of family wisdom, even at the tender age of almost-nineteen. He wonders if it’s a side effect of living with the real-life incarnations of fairy tales that all, he supposes, at one point in their history were intended to have moral resolution, and then rubs at the space between his eyes, his battered copy of Hans Christian Anderson forgotten in his lap.

Bryce is ranting.

About – asparagus?

“– _know better than me_ , my _ass_ he does, like, what, he’s gonna magically _swoop_ in here with his sophomore standards and his stupid tupperware of asparagus and – and – and –”

Bryce gestures eloquently with his hands, the magnitude of Emry Patton’s crimes apparently transcending the capabilities of the English language. Henry wordlessly picks of the half-full bag of jellybeans from his desk and holds it up in silent offering.

Bryce drops his hands to his sides and looks at Henry helplessly.

“You should take a jellybean,” says Henry. 

Bryce does.

“It’s just miserable,” says Bryce, popping a popcorn-flavoured one into his mouth. “‘Cause he’s – y’know, I’m trying to make a good impression on Irwin, and he’s just – what? Like? He’s not even supposed to be taking a _first year_ class.”

“First year classes are open to students of all levels,” Henry reminds him, effortlessly quoting the Academic Calendar that Regina had read from on at least sixteen different occasions and taken to quoting on their long drive up to campus, way back in September. Bryce looks unimpressed.

“Who’s side are you on, anyway, Mills.”

Henry raises his _Alice_ book and levels Bryce with a look. “ _You_. Obviously. And also asparagus, because you seem to harbor an unnecessary hatred towards a vegetable that’s good and tasty. Anyways, obviously all you need to do is out-research him.”

Bryce blinks at him in a very Bryce-like manner.

“Out-research him?”

“It’s my Aunt’s philosophy for literally everything,” Henry says matter-of-factly, “but like, it totally always works. Just show him you know more than he does, and if you actually _do_ know more than he does, he’ll freak out and shut up.”

(“I’m talking to my _Aunt_ ,” Henry protests, at Bryce’s sleepy growl of “ _Stop talking to yourself, Mills_ ,” half muffled by his pillow. Though, by all accounts, Belle’s been doing most of the talking. And, technically, she’s not actually his aunt, more like an ex-step-grandmother who happens to be younger than his actual mothers, plural – but. Well. Semantics. She’s been doing most of the talking and Henry’s just been staring at his argumentation notes until his eyes cross.

“Is now a bad time?” Belle asks over the phone, which is sitting atop Henry’s stack of miscellaneous notes, textbooks, and binders, and it’s a mark of how stressed Henry is right now, at one thirteen a.m. on a Wednesday, that even her remarkably gentle voice is grating and irritating. 

Of course it’s a bad time, but even through the irritation, Henry’d been the one to seek _her_ out – on the brink of a nervous breakdown and desperate for _something_ was what probably guided his fingers over his phone screen to tap on her number. It’s one in the Godforsaken morning and not only did she pick up the phone on the third ring, _she’s_ asking _him_ if he has time to talk. “I just – I’m really. I needed –” Henry’s voice does a funny cracking thing, but Belle only hums on the other end of the line, some of the sleepiness dissipating through the phone connection.

“Henry?” 

“Maybe you could just talk? I swear I’m listening.”

“Of course, Henry,” she says, like it’s eleven a.m. and they’re having a chat over brunch, and Henry narrows his eyes at the mess that are his notes on argumentation, trying to decipher what he probably wrote while he was under some sort of dark curse.

 _Lack of sleep_ , are the wise tones of Amelia’s practical voice in his head, and Henry huffs and tunes back into Belle’s commentary. 

“… the town square,” she’s saying, accented voice light and airy. “You’d love it, Henry, there’s gonna be a whole shelf full of books – me and mother superior are working on putting it up, you might even be able to help over your break.”

And suddenly through the doom and gloom and awfulness of term papers, Belle’s melodic voice bleeds through into Henry’s chest – some magic unique to _her_ , he thinks, suddenly able to un-cross his eyes. Aunt Belle recommends a cup of tea and a good book as the cure-all for everything, and sometimes Henry teases her about it, but – 

“ _Sleep_ ,” comes Bryce’s voice again, annoyed even through the layers of linen and cotton, and Henry throws his pencil at him. 

“You can do it, Henry,” says Belle, suddenly and sincerely over the phone, and Henry thinks that _she’s_ probably the cure-all to everything, just her comforting voice and presence and he misses spending time in the library without having to worry about impending term papers. “You just need to pace yourself. Even the blandest of books have something to teach you.” 

He starts giggling right along with her, one in the morning being an excellent time to laugh at one’s own clichéd, canned lines, and Henry thinks again about how much he misses running his fingers over the spines of the books stacked in the library, or seeing her grin at him over the rim of her tea.)

“You mean,” says Bryce slowly, pressing his fingers together in front of him. “If I just – show up one day, and show _him_ up –”

“Not meanly,” says Henry quickly, because he can practically _feel_ Belle’s disapproving frown from the other side of the state. “That’ll make things worse. Just – calm and, uh, collected, you know? Make him realize that you totally got this.”

“Huh,” says Bryce, slumping back in his favorite office chair. 

Henry wonders if this is a good time to really tell him about Belle – to tell him that she makes ridiculously obscure jokes that you’ll only understand if you’ve read the things she has, or the peculiar way she wrinkles her nose at anything pickled, or her habit of actually keeping her silverware _polished_ , which is something Henry swears is only a real thing in period dramas. He could tell Bryce, he thinks, about how she’s the one who taught him how to truly read a book properly. How you’ve got to skim it, first, start at the top of each paragraph and flip through, and then go back and just sit and have a solid good read, and finally – you’re not done, of course – finally take out your pencil and mark all your favorite bits.

Bryce would ask what she does for a living, and Henry would say she’s the local librarian and refrain from mentioning that she’s employed half the cast of _Peter Pan_ to help her keep the bookshelves organized. 

“The Lost Boys need _something_ to do,” she’d told Henry and Killian, in a tone that carried the sort of finality that made Henry (summertime library volunteer, magically appointed Author) grin, and Killian (assistant librarian, conveniently literate in Ancient Greek and Latin) sigh heavily in a way that made Henry know at once that he didn’t really mind at all, because Belle could tell him they were going to paint the moon purple and he’d follow along, Emma laughing all the while in the background.

But it’s not the right time – Bryce has come to _him_ , after all, for a listening ear, and Henry can’t help but feel as though seizing this opportunity to talk about his family might be a little selfish.

“You’ve got this,” Henry assures him, and Bryce grins weakly and takes another jellybean. 

**

“So,” says Amelia, dumping her backpack onto the table beside him and dropping into the adjacent chair. “What a class, huh?”

“I should’ve never taken this stupid course,” mumbles Henry into his arms, his head pillowed so that an uncomfortable neck crick is coming on and _hasn’t_ mom told him a million times to use the backpack as a pillow if he’s gonna take a nap on the desk, God, he should’ve planned _ahead_.

“Excuse you,” says Amelia, making herself busy by pulling her textbooks and laptop out of her bag and spreading them over the library table. She straightens the edge of _Biochemistry 1100A_ and taps in her passcode, one eyebrow raised archly over the rim of her glasses. “If you hadn’t taken this stupid course, you’d have never met _me_.”

“I might’ve met you somewhere else,” suggests Henry reasonably, still speaking into the table.

“Mmmm,” says Amelia. “Unlikely, Mills.”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Henry sighs, a big, heaving thing. Mom – both moms – say he’s picked up the dramatics from Killian, but Henry likes to think they’ve got a flair of his own, at least. His finger picks at a groove in the table and he _knows_ , he knows he’s being childish and overly sensitive about something that doesn’t even _matter_ , at the end of the day. Just because his professor’s a pompous windbag who shouldn’t be let near fairy tales with a ten foot pole –

“He just –” Henry begins, and if he didn’t need his arms as neck support he’d flail helplessly with his hands. “He gets under my _skin_ , I don’t know – I can’t explain why it bothers me this much, I just –”

A somewhat lame finish, words petering off into the table.

Amelia’s voice is gentle.

“C’mon, Henry. It’s not the end of the world if you’ve got different opinions.”

“About _everything_ ,” Henry bursts out. “He has no idea how to – to approach _stories_ , Mel! He’s got like this, this overly-critical lense and everything’s so straight-forward and _dark_ and like, who – who _says_ that, that you can’t –”

“Henry –”

“Good stories _can_ have happy endings,” says Henry, and he lifts his head in defeat when he hears the desperate note in his own voice.

Amelia’s frowning slightly, now, fingers hovering over her keyboard. Her striped shirt is bright in the dim library lights, and her frizzy hair is hanging in her eyes.

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

Maybe, Henry thinks, maybe _here_ – here is the place, the moment, where he can be wholly honest. Tragedy is not interesting when you’ve only had tragedy for the past several decades, Henry can _testify_ to this, can tell you that there’s nothing exciting about losing loved ones or feeling abandoned or missing your family in an aching, hurting kind of way. There’s nothing engaging about feeling like a lost boy. 

(“So,” says Gramps, leaning back in the camera and pushing his sleeve up his elbow – what Henry knows has become habit. He’s probably balancing on the back legs of the desk chair in the way Snow and Emma always scold him for, and it’s been roughly five minutes of idle chatter from the moment Henry had hesitated – a damn _half second_ , okay, it was _nothing_ – since his casual “I’m okay” to David’s, “How’s the big wide world treating you, Henry?”

“So,” Henry parrots back at him, wondering if maybe he raises his eyebrow the right way or keeps a neutral, diplomatic tone, he can avoid having an “are you sure you’re alright” conversation at ten a.m. in the morning with his grandfather. Which wouldn’t be objectively _terrible_ , only Henry’s got to finish reading _Othello_ by noon and he’s still got three quarters of the book left. 

David’s face softens, and Henry can tell that he’s trying to figure out how to start, so he clears his throat and says, “Have Grandma and Robin started teaching Neal archery yet?”

“Henry,” says Gramps.

“Granny said Aunt Ruby is gonna be there at Christmas –”

“Henry.”

“Mom’ll yell at you if she catches you balancing on the chair like that,” Henry tells him, and David laughs, a small thing that manages to shake his shoulders anyway. All of Gramps’s laughs are full-bodied, even when he’s tired or trying his best to be gentle, like now.

“They still put cinnamon out on the ledge in your caf for the hot chocolate?”

“No, but Bryce introduced me to Starbucks,” Henry tells him. “It was a terrible idea. My bank account is officially cursed.”

David smiles, just a quirk of his lips. “You wanna talk about it?”

Henry swallows, and looks down at his fingers. Talking to Gramps should hypothetically be easy – it’s always been easy, he thinks, at the weirdest and worst of times – but. _But_.

“I’m – I’m okay.”

David is quite for a moment, and Henry doesn’t look up. And then – 

“Chamomile.”

“What?”

“That’s what my mother used to give me when I couldn’t sleep well – right before bed. It’d chase the bad dreams away.”

“Gramps –”

“It’s okay,” says Gramps, his voice suddenly a lot quieter. “It’s okay if they’ve come back.”

Henry picks at an invisible scratch on his laptop with his finger.

“I know.”

“You know, I never went to college.” Henry looks up, just a flick of his eyes. David’s leaning back again, scratching thoughtfully at the scruff on his chin with one hand. “But legend has it that even college students who haven’t watched their family members die can sometimes have a hard time with homesickness.”

Henry wonders, sometimes, if Emma’s bluntness has rubbed off on her father, or if he really is where she got it from in the first place – an inherent tendency that bloomed in full as a result of circumstance. David isn’t usually quite this direct, but when he _is_ it’s alarmingly familiar and somewhat inescapable, and, absurdly – comforting.

“Thanks, Gramps,” Henry manages, quite suddenly and ridiculously feeling his throat tighten, and a thousand _I miss yous_ that have been building up in his chest since term started suddenly swell in his esophagus.

“Hey,” says Gramps, and he’s not leaning back in the chair anymore and Henry wonders if he should comment on it, just to change the mood. “You know we’re always here to talk.”

“My Moms worry,” says Henry, as though that’s a good enough reason.

“That’s their job,” says David. “It’s my job to be your very cool grandpa, so call me the next time things get weird, okay?”

Henry takes a deep breath, and nods, and then starts complaining about _Othello_. David’s laugh is a lot bigger this time, still as full and bright as ever.)

“I just –” Henry shrugs again. “I don’t think he understands how much hope happy endings can give people when their life is a mess.”

Something flickers over Amelia’s face, and she reaches across and gently punches him on the shoulder, a smile quirking her lips.

“So write your essay on that.”

“What?”

“Your final essay – write it on that. Knowing you, you’ll blow it out of the park.”

“Stevenson hates me.”

“And yet you still scrape by nineties.” Amelia rolls her eyes. “Sonuvabitch,” in an affectionate, warm tone.

It would be laughable if he didn’t, Henry thinks, quick and fleeting and adding another layer of anxiety to the stack in the pit of his stomach, because he _knows_ that being the Author doesn’t exactly work in the realm without magic, _knows_ that he’s got enough on his plate now without having to worry about that, too, so maybe it’s a blessing that he hasn’t written anything magical in months.

He _could_ say this, right now. He _could_ say, “It’s because I own a magic pen,” and pass it off as a joke. 

He doesn’t do either, but takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in his chair. 

“Yeah – yeah, okay.”

Amelia grins. “So who’s doing the coffee run?”

“Right now,” says Henry, “is the time for comfort food –”

“Come _on_ , Henry –”

“Which _means_ the over-priced hot chocolate from the Starbucks downstairs.”

Amelia rolls her eyes again, turning back to her evil-looking biochemistry and flipping a page. “No cinnamon on mine, please.”

“I’ll try and remember,” says Henry, grinning. 

**

Cinnamon on hot chocolate is also explained as “a family thing”, and Henry finds it easy to use that as a blanket statement, smoothly escaping the awkward experience of having to explain the details of his convoluted family tree to the average engineering major on his dorm floor. 

Amelia and Bryce usually get a little bit more than “it’s a family thing”, but then again, Amelia made him actually map out his family tree _for_ her, once, and Henry wearily left out the psycho great-grandparents and intergenerational blood feuds and the fact that one of his step-dads once ran away with his paternal grandmother. 

“So your adopted mom –”

“That’s Regina, yeah,” says Henry, tossing a pear up and down.

Amelia’s taken to bringing him pears from the caf, now, each time with a silly little grin. Henry thinks it’s hilarious.

“But you found your real mom when you were ten?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s cool,” says Amelia, who has had all family members intact and at arm’s length since she was born, and who Henry knows always tries her best to be tactful about these things.

It’s not that he _needs_ tact, exactly, and there are plenty of students here with similarly, if not exactly equally, weird family trees as him. It’s just that he’s sure there’s something _new_ in it for Amelia; the extent of her wild family history is that her grandmother took part in the 1960s civil rights movement, which reflectively Henry has to say is really pretty awesome. _His_ family, on the other hand, is a disaster wrapped in an anomaly wrapped in what could probably be the worst case of sequelitis Henry’s ever seen. He really wonders if it wouldn’t just be easier to tell everyone to approach it by imagining some B-grade writer who was paid by the plot twist spent several hundred years churning out increasingly convoluted content.

Even _that_ is unfortunately almost literal, but, you know, whatever. There’s something weirdly comforting in the thought that she genuinely _wants_ to know more, which in turn makes Henry want to squirm even more. 

So he grins and says, 

“It means I get twice the birthday presents.”

“Oh come _on_ , Henry,” says Amelia, laughing. “Like you’re that kind of person at _all_.”

He’s not, but he is, officially, the kind of person who _deflects_ answering questions about his family, and that _officially_ , Henry thinks, _sucks_.

It’s like he’s ashamed of them or something, even though he is most definitely _not_ , despite the terrible, awful disaster that was his Moving Day and how annoying it is to be in the middle of studying for finals and get no less than _five_ phone calls in the span of three hours asking him if he’s doing okay. 

(“Now then,” says Killian, and Henry has to note with just a little bit of pride that his lessons on ‘how to hold you phone camera so that your whole face is in the screen, not just your forehead like an elderly person, yes, I _know_ you’re three-hundred and something years old, not the _point_ ’ have paid off beautifully. “To ask the question that’s been burning on the whole town’s entirely too intermeddling lips for the past four months, I have to take it upon meself to be the sacrificial lamb and inquire as to the existence of any dashing lads or ladies in your young life, Henry.”

Henry opens his mouth. And then closes it. And then opens it once more, puts down his bowl of somewhat soggy noodles from the caf, and narrows his eyes.

“Did my mom put you up to this?”

“On the contrary,” says Killian cheerfully, “your mum is doing a brilliant job changing every aspect of the conversation whenever Granny Lucas has the inimitable courage to broach the topic.” 

There’s a muffled shout from somewhere off screen, the words lost to what Henry is sure is the echoing high ceiling of the library, but Killian seems to hear it perfectly; he laughs, bright and over his shoulder, and calls, “Only slandering your good name, Swan!” to someone off-screen.

“Is Mom there?”

“She and Belle are looking for a particular tome that’s supposedly hidden somewhere among these blasted shelves,” says Killian, a small flitter of concern crossing his face. “Not –” he adds, hastily, because Henry’s poker face is still utterly miserable even after years of practice – “ _not_ because there’s anything wrong, lad. Merely some light reading.”

“Are you _sure_ ,” says Henry, “because last time we thought we had peace and quiet, it was actually –”

“Henry,” says Killian, a unique strand of gentleness lacing under his teasing tone. “You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Ugh,” says Henry.

Killian waggles his eyebrows. Idiot.

“I’m too busy for relationships,” Henry tells him, and even though it’s _true_ , every syllable of it, it falls oddly flat on his own ears. Which are turning red. “I mean – I don’t. There’s no one. _Killian_ , ugh!”

“Well, according to your dear mother and the internet box, moving away to partake in your studies is supposed to be a time for rash decisions and general revelry.” He pauses, something undeniably knowing settling into his smile. “And you, I take it, have been …”

“Spending most of my time with my nose in a book?”

“That’s the spirit, lad.”

“You’re the worst, you know.” Because certainly, _Robin’s_ never had this annoying habit of teasing Henry within an inch of his life, but Henry supposes that Killian’s always been more of a – well, _more_ , somehow. 

Which is why, Henry thinks, his ridiculous grin quite suddenly softens around the mirth still dancing in his eyes.

“Are you alright, Henry?”

Henry blinks, and is this the go-to, he wonders, is this something all his family members are required to ask, or is there _actually_ something in his face that gives him away – is he really _not_ alright, despite what he’s been so diligently telling himself? He doesn’t know.

“I –” says Henry, and the words _am fine_ die on his lips. “I don’t know.”

Killian’s smile, for the first time, starts to genuinely fade, the camera shaking suddenly as he adjusts it and leans forward. “Is it the – Dave said –”

“Of course he did,” mutters Henry, and Killian raises an eyebrow.

“Your grandfather’s concern is natural.” He pauses and taps his fingers against the reception desk. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“It’s not –” Henry shrugs, his free hand playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “It’s not the dreams, exactly. I just –” Inhale, exhale – “Did mom tell you, we started reading _Peter Pan_ the other day?”

Killian makes a face. “She mentioned it, aye.”

“And it’s not, like, I can’t – can’t _handle_ it, or whatever. I know the book’s just – just a _story_. But everyone else –” Henry falters, the words petering out. “It’s just, it’s not _real_ , okay? It’s not real to anyone here. And it’s making _me_ feel like I’m – like something’s wrong, like there’s just this big –” He waves his hand a little bit helplessly, trying to explain the words _nobody believes_ without sounding like an idiot.

“You’re trying to reconcile the two parts of your identity,” says Killian softly after a moment. He’s quiet after that, though – an opening, if Henry ever saw one; not too obvious but not indifferent, either. Henry figures he gets a lot of practice doing that with this family.

“I dunno,” Henry mumbles. He thinks that Regina would attribute the mumbling to Emma and something like heartache increases in his chest cavity.

There’s a sigh, undoubtedly from Killian, but Henry’s too interested in his t-shirt again to confirm it. There’s a hole at the hem that he hadn’t noticed, which sucks, because he really likes this t-shirt. It’s plain and blue and goes with any and all moods.

And then Killian says,

“Fencing.”

“What,” says Henry.

“If I’ve understood correctly,” says his stepfather, deliberate, “this is an establishment that offers more than simply an academic education, is it not? Emma says – well, it’s not important. These _club_ things – you should try one of those. Swordplay is something you’re already passably adept at, is it not?”

His eyes are twinkling, once again like a perfect freaking opportunity, an opening for Henry to tease back, and Henry kind of wants to hate him for knowing him so well.

“ _Passably_ ,” he deadpans, picking up his cue. “I kicked your ass last time, old man.”

“A truly adept swordsman would know that I let you win,” says Killian lightly, and Henry decides that next time Stevenson asks him his opinion on _Peter Pan_ , he’s gonna be completely honest and say that Captain Hook is the _worst_.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” says Henry. “Also – yeah, um. Okay.”

Killian’s face softens, his mouth ticking upwards just slightly in a reassuring smile. Henry offers him a mix between a grimace and a grin and rolls his eyes, but – well. Maybe he can ask Amelia to join with him.) 

“So, are any of them gonna visit anytime soon?” asks Amelia in a super casual voice, and Henry groans, because it might only be a half a year into this bromance thing they’ve got going, but he totally knows where she’s going with this.

“We are _not_ talking about how my roommate thinks my step-dad is hot.”

“Honey, Bryce Chen has eyes in his head, same as me.” Amelia flicks an old salt wrapper at him over the table. “He and your mom are married, right?”

“Uh huh,” says Henry wearily, putting down the pear and pulling out _Little Women_ to hide behind. “Why?”

“I’ve seen pictures on your phone,” says Amelia. “They look like the kind of people who eloped on the back of a motorcycle. Which is super cool, by the way, I wish my parents looked like that.”

Amelia’s parents are financial analysts who live in a Brooklyn apartment and depend on their two lovebirds to keep them company whilst their kids are away at school. Henry is almost ninety percent sure neither of them have ever gotten a parking ticket, let alone wielded a magic sword or gotten into trouble with the law for grand theft royal treasury. Or _died_.

“Ugh, shut up,” says Henry, hiding farther behind his book. It’s not that they’re _not_ the kind of people who look like they might have eloped on the back of motorcycle. It’s that Mom makes bad fairy tale puns all the time and Killian unironically thinks that boiled mackerel is a healthy breakfast option. “They’re not _that_ cool. Can we go through the themes in _Little Women_?”

“We literally started reading it yesterday,” says Amelia, her eyes twinkling with mischief now. “Say hi from me next time they call, loser. Tell Killian I think his earring’s hella.”

Henry dignifies this with a badly hidden grin (he can picture the polite confusion at the word “hella” already) and a continued and studious perusal of _chapter one_ , and maybe sometimes it’s easier than others, but even then – 

_Even then_.

“He, uh – okay, _don’t_ add this to the cool thing –”

“Oh my God, what.”

“Would you join fencing club with me if I weirdly asked you to?”

Amelia hums, and props her chin on her palm, tilting her head. 

“To like, make new friendships,” she says, “or something?”

“Or something.”

“This isn’t gonna be one of those things that you’re weirdly skilled at, right? Like Bryce said you could pick locks –”

“Oh my God,” says Henry, and thanks any deity up there that _Little Women_ is a large enough book to fully hide his face behind in times of tests.

But then Amelia’s tugging it away, grinning at him in a way that makes Henry feel slightly less weird.

“Hey – dude, c’mon. If you _are_ a secret sword master, that’s pretty awesome. You can teach me how to be one, too, so I can kick the asses of all catcallers next time I go off-campus to grab premium-quality bagels.”

“Only if you get me two bagels instead of one,” says Henry, and her grin widens.

**

Samira Ibrahim is huddled on the edge of his bed, crying once again as the clock strikes _after midnight, you sleep-deprived losers_ , and Henry is rummaging through his desk trying to find a Kleenex box while Bryce and Amelia and Kathy Lu from upstairs rub her back and arms consolingly. There’s ice in the mini fridge, he’s pretty sure, unless Bryce used it all up last week when he decided he needed to chill his coffee (the fridge wasn’t strong enough, he insisted, and Henry called him a snob and was smacked in the face with a pillow for his efforts) – and, _ah_ , he’s got it, the still-unused packet of soft aloe Kleenexes that Grandma had sent him two months ago in the spectacularly in-character move of a _care package_. The rest of the beautifully-wrapped cardboard box has been since used or otherwise emptied, the jelly beans (Emma) disappearing one by one and the knit scarf (David) hanging from the lamp in the corner, keeping watch over the childish scrawl in the letter from Roland and Neal, the wrapped square of blueberry pie ( _seriously_ , Grandma), and the brand new, beautifully-gilded Jules Verne that Snow said was a gift from Belle.

( _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ , thank _God_ , and nothing to do with leagues or seas or submarines, bless her heart.)

He quickly tears the Kleenex open and drops to his knees in front of Samira’s shaking form, pulling two out and offering them to her gently.

“Milady,” says Henry gravely (he can see Gramps’ grin in his head), and that gets a watery chuckle out of her as she reaches a trembling hand and takes the wadded tissues from his fingers. He keeps one and wets it with the water bottle in Bryce’s cold fingers, biting his lip in concentration and getting to work gently dabbing at the scrape on her knee.

“It’s just shock,” says Amelia soothingly, never a pause in her methodic back-rub. “You’ll be okay in the morning, Samira. D’you know who the guy was?”

“N-no,” says Samira, fumbling with the Kleenex as she tries to wipe the mascara off of her cheeks. “I was just dancing with him an – and I didn’t realize he was go-onna –”

“It’s okay,” says Kathy, wrapping her arms around Samira’s other side and rocking back and forth a few times. “It’s okay, it’s okay, babe. You’re safe now, and he was drunk and the _biggest_ dick imaginable but it’s all over now. You shouldn’t have turned your back on him, Sam, you _know_ how dangerous drunk assholes can be.”

“She’s right,” says Henry, still looking at Samira’s knee. Most of the smeared sheen of blood is on the Kleenex, now, but Henry dabs a couple more times, counting on the coolness of the water to ease the sting she’s probably feeling. “Never turn your back on an oncoming storm, rich people, or drunk guys who’ve got an overblown sense of entitlement.”

Samira gives him another shaky laugh, leaning into Kathy’s embrace. “Wh-who told you that?”

“My step-dad,” says Henry, offering her another gentle smile and straightening up on his knees. He doesn’t mention that he’s paraphrased somewhat liberally, but he has a feeling that Killian’s mistrust of corrupt royalty isn’t quite as relatable in _this_ setting as it was when they were out on the bay and Henry was asking him about his days in the navy. 

(He wishes momentarily that he could tell her more, about rowdy taverns and the cobblestones of the courtyard by the docks and how Regina once told him that even when you carry a sword strapped to your hip there are men who’d expect more than they damn well deserve.

 _Tossers, every one of them_ , he remembers Killian saying, an odd mix of cheerful and dark, except that’s about a whole other _world_ and he wonders if maybe he should’ve passed on Emma Advice, instead, so that he wouldn’t be left feeling like he’s spouting half-truths.)

( _Ninety percent of men are dicks_ , is the Emma Advice that Henry became familiar with only once he turned seventeen, his mother’s green eyes sparking with that same mixture of cheer and wrapped-away anger. _Can’t trust ‘em_.)

“Did he give you a phone number?” presses Amelia, the sort of ferocity sparking in her eyes that Henry is all too familiar with – the kind that means whatever monster or villain that tried to harm any one of his sprawling family is about to be blasted into oblivion by a very angry Emma Swan. “He _hit_ you, that’s something you can press charges against.”

“N-no, it’s okay,” says Samira, and Henry thinks that it’s categorically _not_ okay, he can see the bruise blooming over her cheekbone, but what can you do when you go out to have a good time and some random asshole who dances with you once thinks he’s entitled to grope your ass and then – “It’s just that I turned aw-way from him, I thought our conversation w-was over? And a second later he was yelling and my cheek hurt –”

“Shhhh, babe, _shhh_ ,” says Kathy, hugging her more tightly, even as her own tears spill out of angry eyes and onto Samira’s bare shoulder. “It’s a good thing Bryce has a car.”

“It’s a miracle it didn’t break down on the way there,” says Bryce with a strained laugh, because _God_ , yeah, the ancient Toyota is notorious for being less reliable than Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage. 

(Ashley’d think that’s hilarious, Henry thinks, comparing Bryce Chen’s piece of junk car to a gilded, magic-infused chariot. Emma, he knows, would be laughing riotously at the mere thought.)

“And thank God for the can of Pepsi Meg stuck in your purse earlier,” says Amelia, not even bothering to laugh, suddenly looking really tired and – well, Henry hates the purple that’s growing on Samira’s tanned cheek and so he gets up abruptly, to go check the fridge for that damned ice, because even if Kathy was an all-around hero and clocked the guy on the back of the head with her soda-armed purse, Samira still got _punched_. 

In the alley in front of a damned club, and Henry thinks that not all villains are magical bad guys who twirl around and make dramatic speeches in the middle of Main Street.

(“And are you staying on top of all your classes?”

His mom is in her office, her dark hair swept back in a bun, fountain pen still held in her hands like she was doing paperwork when Henry called her. He can see the familiar decor on the wall behind her, and the particular way her face softens when she’s talking to him.

“Come on, Mom,” says Henry, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t algebra anymore.”

“It’s a valid question!” says Regina, spreading her fingers in a muted gesture of defense. “College life can easily sweep you up and you’ll be behind in your readings in the blink of an eye, Henry –”

“Mom,” says Henry, and he really, really doesn’t know what makes him say it. “You’ve never even _been_ to college.” Something flickers over his mom’s face. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, but Henry knows her, and he backtracks. “I mean – sorry, that was rude –”

“No,” says Regina, sighing. “No, you’re right.” She smiles, and it’s warm and sincere and she doesn’t miss a beat before continuing, “But you’d be surprised at how similar ruling a kingdom is. Miss one political treaty and suddenly you’re at war, Henry.”

Henry laughs, and wonders if he should tell her about how often he has to stop himself from comparing notes with resident history major Bryce Chen on how monarchy works. “I _promise_ I’m on top of my stuff, Mom. I’ve barely left my room in weeks except to go to class!”

Regina’s eyes widen in alarm, and – oh, boy. “Isolation isn’t the answer either – for God’s sake, if you don’t learn how to balance your time, you’ll get into serious –”

“Mom,” says Henry quickly, “ _Mom_ , it’s fine, I was exaggerating –”

“Do you have many friends?” asks Regina, a hint of menace in her voice, as though she’s seconds away from personally poofing into Dorm B and commanding people to interact with her son. Henry hadn’t realized how much he missed her. “I know you had some trouble when you were in elementary school, but that was my own fault, I –”

“It’s _okay,_ Mom,” says Henry, half-exasperated laughter in his voice. “I swear I’ve got at least five and a half friends.”

“At least five and a half,” repeats Regina, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“The half is very important,” says Henry solemnly. His mother’s fingers loosen where they were gripping her pen, and a warm smile spreads slowly over her face.

“I love you,” she says, sounding more relieved than Henry thinks she should be. 

_Friends_ is an interesting concept, after all.)

“I’m gonna go find some ice,” Henry tells her, _them_ , forcing his shoulders to ease up because his being tense and angry isn’t gonna help Samira much. “For your cheek,” he adds unnecessarily, and Samira nods, another watery smile making its way through her tears. 

“Thanks, Henry.”

“No problem,” he says, and offers her a gentle smile, the way Gramps taught him. Amelia’s still looking angry, and his knees ache a little from kneeling on the floor for so long, but Henry makes his way to the mini-fridge, with the selfie of Bryce and his little sister taped to the front, and tugs it open. 

There’s still some ice left, so he won’t have to smack Bryce upside the head half-heartedly for his wasteful coffee habits, and Samira’s breathing has calmed down a little, at any rate. They’ll probably all stay in Dorm B for the night, maybe even in his room, and Henry will sleep on the floor with Bryce and fall asleep in Children’s Lit tomorrow and have to deal with Stevenson’s stink eye but it’s worth it, he thinks, it’s _worth_ it. You make sacrifices for your friends.

**

Henry’s life sucks. 

That’s an exaggeration, because his life has been in far worse straits than _this_ before. Like, he’s literally had his heart ripped out, which should honestly be at the top of his This Is The Absolute Worst list, only maybe kind of sort of getting into a heated argument with his Children’s Lit professor _again_ has slid into the top-most position, as of today.

God, he doesn’t _have_ this trouble with his other courses. Creative Writing 101 is like, the chillest chill he’s ever experienced, with the exception of the literal chill that was felt by all when the Snow Queen hit town.

Ugh, whatever. Henry is certain. Henry is resigned. Henry _knows_.

Stevenson is gonna _fail_ his _ass_.

“Jeez, man,” says Bryce, their dorm room door swinging shut behind him as he stands to take in Henry, lying on his back on his bed and staring morosely at the ceiling. “You had a shouting match with a prof about _love_?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” says Henry, and yep – it’s official. The fact that this disaster of a catastrophe has made its way to the local Dorm B grapevine means that Henry’s grades are officially doomed. Not just his grades – his tenuous grasp on Cool Kid Status, thanks to his step-fathers’ tattoos, is swirling down the metaphorical drain.

He had a _shouting match_ with his _professor_ about _love_.

 _God_.

And it’s sort of pathetic, the way Stevenson can get under Henry’s skin like this, so blasé and uncaring about these precious stories that Henry’s spent his life _living_ and maybe the last straw came when the man wrinkled his nose, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and answered the question, “What about true love’s kiss?” with a flippant, “Weak storytelling. Doesn’t exist.”

Henry had – well.

There’s a sudden banging on the door, loud and abrupt so that Bryce nearly jumps out of his skin. Henry barely flinches, glaring up at the dull white ceiling and wondering if it would be terribly childish of him to call Emma. Talking to his mom always helps – both moms, really, but he figures of the two of them, Emma is going to take more kindly to “I shouted at my professor” as the opening greeting. The banging continues, the slap of a hand against the door.

“Henry! Open up!”

Bryce locks eyes with Henry from across the room and makes a funny face which could probably constitute the universal expression for, “should I open the door to our somewhat aggressive female friend who will likely make you unload your Many Feelings through sheer force of determination?”

Henry continues glaring; Bryce takes this as a _no_ and plops himself into his customary wheely desk chair, tapping his fingers along the edges and chewing his lip at the poster of the Marauder’s Map hanging on the adjacent wall.

“Henry, come on!”

“This is a boy’s dorm room and it’s after curfew!” Henry calls back, and he can practically _hear_ her eye roll from the other side.

“That’s bull and you know it, Mills, for God’s sake, I brought hot chocolate!”

Something in Henry seems to deflate. He groans, rolls off the bed and unlocks the door, swinging it open to Amelia’s face, an odd mixture of concerned and irate. She’s wearing a frumpy plaid shirt over leggings and is, true to her word, holding a to-go cup in her hand from the downstairs caf, and Henry groans slightly.

“I’m officially getting an F,” he tells her, in way of greeting, and she sighs and pushes the chocolate into his hands, slipping into the room in a way that holds the slight awkwardness of a new-ish friend who is uncertain if they’ve overstepped their bounds. She hovers until Bryce offers her his desk chair – bless him – and Henry sinks down onto the opposite bed and repeats himself. “I am officially, categorically, gonna flunk his class.”

“You don’t know that,” says Amelia immediately, leaning forward. And then (as he knew it would come, almost exactly this immediate): “But _seriously_ , you need to know when to pick your battles!”

“I _do_ know when to pick my battles!” says Henry, a little petulant, but sue him okay, that doesn’t always have to apply to professional classroom settings; if he’s up against a sea monster or a dragon, he sure as hell knows it’s time to sheathe his sword and run as far away as he can. He huffs again, dropping the hot chocolate onto the bedside table and flopping backwards onto his back.

“Man,” says Amelia. “Dude. _Buddy_. Stevenson’s an ass, but – Henry, come on. You argued with this man for ten minutes about _true love’s kiss_.”

“I know.”

“In front of the _whole class_.”

“I know.”

“For _ten whole minutes_ –”

“I _know_!”

Amelia freezes momentarily at his outburst, her eyebrows shooting up to disappear beneath her frizzy bangs. Henry doesn’t move, but takes a deep breath, gives the ceiling one more solid glare and shuts his eyes.

Amelia launches right back Into It.

“Which is _great_ , my guy, really, you could give me a run for my money in the _inability to shut up when it’s time_ scale, but – but, Henry, true love? However much of a jerk Stevenson is, that’s unfortunately just _your_ opin –”

“ _No_! It’s –” 

Henry shoots back into sitting position, mouth snapping back shut just in time to not sound like a crazy person, but he’s frowning and he’s never been good at hiding how _upset_ he is and Amelia’s eyebrows have creased, and great, cool, so this day is going from _bad_ to _worst_. He falters, hands gripping the comforter, and his words die in his throat. 

“Dude,” says Bryce, uncharacteristically succinct.

“Henry,” says Amelia.

“It’s just – I can’t – it’s _not_ just my opinion, it’s –”

“True love’s kiss?” Amelia’s expression is skeptical at best. “Are you –”

“Listen,” says Henry, because he has to explain this, he can’t just pretend it’s another of those things that isn’t intimate and real and all-too present in his life. “ _Listen_ , Mel, haven’t you – it’s not just romantic, okay, you always say that when you hug your mom, you get that warm feeling down to your toes? And Bryce –” Bryce starts at being addressed, but he nods, eyes wide – “when you and Zeke are together, you told me – you told me two weeks ago that you feel like _everything’s right,_ and you’ve only been dating for two months!”

“But those are just _feelings_ ,” says Amelia. “You can’t – God, Henry, you couldn’t take that up in a court of law or anything, they’re emotions, they’re all over the pace – your neurotransmitters send hormones –”

“It’s _real_!” says Henry. “My mom –”

And what’s he going to say, Henry thinks, that isn’t going to make a messy situation even worst? That his grandparents have literally broken three curses just by kissing? How Aunt Ruby crossed realms to save Dorothy? How pixie dust showed one mom her destined soulmate, or how the other mom literally _weighed her heart on a magical scale_ to prove the truth of her love?

That it’s a physical, tangible thing, rippling white-gold through Emma’s fingers and thrumming with magic?

_Yeah, I ate a poisoned apple turnover and my mom loved me so much it brought me back from the dead. Ish. Sort of. Cool chat, guys, so what’s the date for our next quiz?_

There is a moment, a very long moment, where everything seems to freeze and something sharp and blunt all at once seems to snap right there in the middle of Henry’s chest.

Oh. Oh, _no_.

He wishes foolishly, desperately, for one terrifying moment that he was like Grandfather, so that he could just will himself to disappear right out of that room so that his two closest friends wouldn’t see him shed tears over the concept of true love’s kiss. 

Bryce looks like he's never seen someone cry before, which is ridiculous, because he himself cried over the French Revolution just the other day. Amelia is –

“Shit,” she says, and nothing else. 

“I’m fine,” Henry scrambles, wiping furiously, voice gravelly and cracking. “I’m _fine_ , I just – I –” But he doesn’t really have anything else to say, except maybe he does, because before he can monitor his own mouth he’s saying, 

“My family’s a really big freaking mess and my dad died when I was eleven and I’m just really, _really_ homesick right now.”

His voice comes out more snotty and clogged by the second, with little to no regard for his vigorous eye-scrubbing, and he squeezes his eyes shut and has absolutely no idea what just happened. 

Like time just stood still or something, like he had temporary memory loss.

 _A curse_ , supplies his brain, and Henry almost laughs right there, the hysterical kind of laughter that means you’re a couple screws loose.

 _What the hell does that have to do with true love_ , he’s waiting for his friends to say. Except –

“Hey,” comes Amelia’s voice, soft and gentle, more than he’s ever heard her. “Hey – Henry.”

“Sorry,” croaks Henry, his eyes still squeezed shut ( _too much too much too much too –)_ “Sorry, I’ll –”

“You should’ve just told us,” says Amelia, still soft. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

Henry opens his eyes, still grimacing. Bryce has transitioned from confusion to looking faintly like he’s considering calling 911, his glasses a bit lopsided – but Amelia has this _look_ on her face. The same look Emma gets, sometimes. Like she’s gonna kick some bad guy’s ass. There’s – a determination.

“It’s okay,” says Henry, still croaky. “It’s not your fault.” _Deep breath_. “I just – I’ve never really, uh. Been away from home this long. But I’m okay.”

He laughs, half-hearted and lame, and thinks once more that moving away for college is not the most normal thing that he’s ever done. 

“I’ll grab the jelly-beans,” says Bryce suddenly, bless him _twice_ over, and gets up to go rummage in the closet.

Amelia sighs, and moves to sit beside him on the bed. She’s really cool, Henry thinks, when she bumps his shoulder with her own. The coolest. He’s happy he knows her.

“You sure you’re okay?” she says finally, after a few long, extended moments.

“I’m fine,” says Henry tiredly. “It’s just –” He frowns. “I’m fine.”

“Stevenson’s a jackass,” Amelia offers, and he can’t describe how grateful he is that she’s not being weird or emotional or saying how sorry she is about his dad, because that’’s not really the problem, is it, and also that would be the worst. And he hates that he feels that way, that he feels like he still hasn’t explained because he _still_ hasn’t explained – 

Bryce re-emerges, triumphant. 

“Stevenson’s not gonna fail you,” says Bryce, throwing Henry’s favorite pink beans his way. “Your essays are too good. At worst, he’ll give you a seventy.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Chen,” mumbles Henry, and Bryce laughs, nervously, the way he does when he’s not sure how to answer a question in the exam review pack. But he’s trying, just like everyone else is, so Henry doesn’t feel too bad. “C’mon,” he says. “Toss me the aloe Kleenex, I need to stop feeling like a loser.”

“You’re not a loser,” Bryce and Amelia say together, immediately.

Henry blinks. Once – twice.

“Thanks, guys,” he says again. This time, it’s more than just a mumble.

And Henry thinks, _it’s time_ , like he hasn’t been doing this every couple weeks _anyway_.

**

“I shouted at my professor,” he says, in way of opening greeting. Emma leans back against the couch’s armrest – Henry’s always liked that couch – and shuffles around a bit to get comfortable.

“Huh,” she says.

“Yep,” says Henry. “Front of the whole class and everything. Mom, I know you didn’t do college and that’s sort of a sore spot and everything, but like, as a general rule. Don’t do college.”

She’s got that look on her face, the one that reminds him how good she’s gotten at putting aside her own crappy childhood to make him feel better about anything and everything under the sun. It really says a lot about how far they’ve come that he’s stopped feeling weirdly bad about talking about these things, and _she’s_ stopped feeling weirdly bad about talking about these things, and they can sit in relatively comfortable silence while Henry laments the college experience and Emma hums sympathetically. 

“On a scale of only sporadically an asshole to _peak_ asshole,” says Emma, “what is he.”

“Oh, God,” says Henry. “ _Peak_.”

She raises an eyebrow and nods, contemplative.

Henry really appreciates his mom, sometimes. 

The thing is, though – there was _purpose_ to this call, outside of just this weird unspoken validation of his errant teen behaviour, and they’ve come a long way and Henry’s stopped trying really hard to be casual about things and Emma’s his _mom_ , so she can tell. She really can.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. So spill. What’s the deal, kid.”

And it’s Emma and she’s sprawled on the couch in their living room with her dumb beanie on _inside the house_ , like she does all the time even though Killian frequently says _who wears hats indoors_ , because that’s apparently not a thing people do, and –

“Mom,” says Henry, his voice coming out a lot more croaky than he intended. It’s like since the dam broke yesterday everything that he’s been carefully building up to stop the stupid waterworks is malfunctioning. “I wanna come home.”

Immediately, Emma’s face softens, eyebrows pulling together in a way that is uniquely _her_ , more than just the visible blend of David and Mary Margaret but _Emma, Emma Swan, Henry’s mom_.

“Henry,” she says, soft.

“I just – I don’t –” It’s hard, because he’s been _thinking_ this stuff for the past six months, and it’s not like he didn’t go home for Christmas like a normal kid and see everyone again and come back feeling weirder than before, but now that he actually wants to talk about it, the words feel clunky in his mouth. “So – so my prof, this guy – he said stuff. Like, he’s teaching us about _fairy tales_ and he says stuff like true love isn’t true, and stories don’t have to have happy endings –”

“Oh boy,” says Emma, in a tone that Henry can’t quite place, but the words are spilling out now and _these_ words are easier to get out than the other ones, about how he feels weirdly lonely even though he has friends and he misses his family desperately.

“– And he’s just such a _jerk_ about it, so I said maybe he was wrong and he laughed at me so I maybe, sorta shouted –”

“Henry,” says Emma again. This time it’s not all that soft, an edge of something creeping in there.

“Yeah,” says Henry.

Emma purses her lips into one thin line.

“You’re not telling me what’s really wrong.”

Henry feels his stomach sink.

“Oh,” he says.

“I mean, that guy sounds like an asshole,” says his mom, shrugging. “But come on, kid. Come on.”

The knit blanket on his bunk is soft under his fingers. Henry tugs at it, brings it right up to under his chin, and clenches his fist.

“I,” starts Henry. And starts again. “I – just – feel like a part of me is – I can’t tell anyone – you know how–” He squeezes his eyes and makes a face and tries not to feel irritated at how he’s supposed to be some kind of magical author and he can’t even form a straight sentence. “You know how when you first came to Storybrooke I kind of had no friends and was a weird loner kid.”

Emma chews on the inside of her cheek, doesn’t frown, and says, “Sure.”

“Right,” says Henry, “right, ‘cause I thought – I _knew_ there was something more, but everyone else didn’t, and then it sorta made me feel like I was going nuts?”

Now, Emma frowns. “Sure.”

“So like,” Henry pushes forward, “so like, it’s not that I don’t have any friends, ‘cause I _do_ , but I feel like I’m half lying to them about everything all the time and even if I _did_ say something –”

His voice breaks, again. He’s an adult – he’s _eighteen_. When Emma was eighteen –

“Mom,” he says again. And here, _here_ is the problem: “I wanna come home.”

There’s a really long moment where Emma looks at him with her bright green eyes, intense and calculating. He hasn’t said anything about not coming back to college – he hasn’t said _anything_ , barely, like it’s all still bubbling under the surface, and Henry reaches up jerkily to wipe at the wetness on his cheeks.

Emma says, “Tell them.”

There’s a moment of silence. It’s so loud that the stupid real-live antique clock on Bryce’s desk that belonged to his late aunt can be heard, ticking loudly. Henry thinks that it reminds him of the crocodile from the Disney cartoon.

“What,” says Henry.

“You told _me_ ,” says Emma. 

It’s really that simple, isn’t it, and Henry, who’s so good with words and writing and telling stories, thinks that everything sort of slides into place right there, laces together like the mix of determination and tenderness lacing through her words. 

“Oh,” says Henry. “Oh – oh. Okay.”

“ _And_ you’re coming home,” she says, firm and final, not anywhere close to an afterthought. “How does the end of the week sound? You can spend the weekend here. Roland’ll go nuts, he says you’re the best at making snow people.”

Henry breaks into a full, relieved grin, so wide that it makes him realize that he hadn’t actually known how scared he was she’d say _no, you have assignments and tests and you might fall behind, stick it out and you’ll be fine, it’s good for you_ – which, like, _why_ did he think that, anyway.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I’ll make Killian shovel the driveway,” she confirms, and Henry chokes on a half-laugh, because he knows full well that she can and will poof that stuff away with magic and she’s probably just saying that to sound weirdly domestic, or something. 

That’s what normal people do, right? Make their husband shovel the driveway?

Emma smiles, kind of small, her cheek squishing against the couch cushions when she tilts her head at him.

“I believe in you, Henry,” she says.

Henry _almost_ starts crying in earnest – he doesn’t, but it’s a really big almost.

**

Henry’s going home in two days.

That’s all that’s keeping him from opening the dorm window and physically climbing down the brick wall, because, as he mentioned, his ability to magically zap himself out of rooms is woefully non-existent.

The clock on Bryce’s desk can be heard ticking again in the silence. Henry wonders what would happen if he said, out loud right now, “Oh yeah, and uh, the ticking alarm clock thing is fake news.”

Amelia is staring deliberately at the floor, her fingers steepled together under her chin; Henry refrains from saying, out loud right now, “Oh yeah, and uh, the ticking alarm clock thing is fake news.”

“So,” says Amelia.

“Yeah,” says Henry.

“Anyway,” says Amelia. “I guess a lot like. Makes sense now.”

“You can leave,” says Henry. “Like through that door. And um. Not – you know. I’ll tell Bryce I burned all your Chem notes, or something, that that’s why we’re no longer friends.”

Amelia takes a really long, deep breath and steeples her fingers a little bit harder. Her glasses have started sliding down her nose, because she’s been looking at the floor for like a half hour now, ever since Henry said, “Fairy tales are real and my grandparents are Snow White and Prince Charming,” and her hair is frizzier than normal because it’s stupid humid right now. March is a dumb month in New York, Henry thinks. There’s still snow but it’s so wet that everything’s like this gross grey slush. It’s not nearly this bad in fake Maine.

Except it’s not really fake Maine, it’s super real to him, and Amelia – Amelia _knows_ , now.

He told her.

Amelia says,

“Don’t be a supreme dumbass, Mills.”

Well. Okay. That was –

“Unexpected?” Henry grimaces, ignores the too-fast beating of his stupid, red red heart. “Wait, that wasn’t a full sentence – I mean, you don’t think I’m completely insane?”

“I already thought you were completely insane,” says Amelia.

“I’m being serious, Mel.”

“Yeah, I know. Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t actually shut up.”

She looks up, finally, and Henry looks back.

Henry’s told her pretty much everything, mostly because he panicked and didn’t know where to start or stop, and that meant a lot of unnecessary exposure of feelings, too. It’s kind of terrifying, objectively and subjectively, but ultimately he _had_ to tell her because she was his friend and he hated lying about things. She knows that, now. And she also clearly knew he was lying about something, because normal people don’t yell at Dr. Stevenson about true love even if their family _wasn’t_ a bunch of fairy tale characters. Like maybe he’d had a death in the family, or something (not wrong), or knew people who were going through a really bad divorce ( _very_ wrong). Either way – she knew, and so Henry told, and now she _knows_.

She looks up, _finally_ , and Henry looks back.

She’d have probably said something super touching, too, Henry thinks in years to come. Like maybe how she trusted him even though they’d only been friends for three-quarters of a school year, or how they’d survived one-a.m. literature analysis together and sock-slid down the Dorm C hallway in unison, or how she’d once almost poked his eye out with a fencing sword and that was a _bonding_ experience, okay. There’s a small chance she might have thwacked him across the face with the pillow on the other side of the bed, but there’s no way Henry can ever know for sure, because right then in that moment, someone clears their throat really awkwardly in the doorway.

Henry feels his jaw physically drop.

“ _Mom_?!”

And it is, it really is, and Emma Swan is standing in the doorway to Henry and Bryce’s dorm wearing her favorite red leather jacket and clutching what Henry weirdly recognizes as four of the thirteen family photo albums Mary Margaret keeps neatly tucked away in the cute Etsy-ish shelf in the loft living room.

Amelia blinks three times, and says, 

“Hi. Uh –”

“Emma,” says Emma. “So, um. I gave you advice and then I panicked and thought it was terrible advice so I drove down here with photographic proof in case you already told them because I’d have felt like a really shitty mom if you lost all your friends.”

The clock on Bryce’s desk ticks.

“Oh,” says Henry. “Okay.”

“He’s not insane,” Emma says, turning to Amelia now and still stiffly clutching the photo albums. “Unless like twelve people have been having a mass hallucination for the past eight years. Which is really possible, mind you, but I have photo albums and I’m _pretty_ sure no one’s photoshopped them or anything. My mother is very protective of her photo albums.”

Amelia says nothing for a long moment, prompting Emma to thrust them out for her to take. She does, and pushes her glasses up her nose, and says,

“I didn’t think Henry is insane.”

“Oh,” says Emma. “So he’s already – said.”

“Yeah,” say Henry and Amelia at the same time. Henry thinks that overall, Amelia is taking this really well, for a biology major who was just told that magic is real and her friend’s adoptive mom is _the_ Evil Queen. She’s probably doing a lot better than Bryce would be, which is definitely why they’re doing this while Bryce is on a study date with Zeke and not while Bryce is here in their room. Bryce fainting would have been bad, Henry thinks. And then it registers, fully, in Henry’s brain, what Amelia said. 

“Wait,” he says. “You really don’t think I’m insane?”

“Dude,” says Amelia. “You’re a terrible liar. I would’ve been able to tell.”

“You _are_ a terrible liar,” Emma offers with a shrug from her new spot perched on Bryce’s spinny chair. When did she even sit down, Henry is so lost, right now.

“Lying has nothing to do with being totally bat-crap crazy,” Henry points out, a consideration which he really thinks is _fair_. Emma snorts, muffled, and Henry almost grimaces because _oh, oh I see what’s happening here, I’ve turned into the old version of my mother –_

And _here_ is where Amelia says something really nice and touching in the moment, which is:

“Shut up, Henry Mills. You’re my best friend. I happen to have great, non-insane taste in best friends.”

And it’s sort of weird because his mom’s sitting right there, and she’ll probably be texting Regina and Killian about all of this in the car on the way home even though _texting and driving isn’t safe, Mom, you’re literally the sheriff_ , but it’s not that weird, either, because Amelia puts all the photo albums down on the bedspread that was definitely knit by Prince Charming and leans over to hug him.

They’ve never hugged before. It’s pretty cool.

“It’s really weird, though,” she says. “You’re gonna have to explain it ten more times.”

“O-of course,” says Henry.

“You should leave out the three hundred year blood feud,” says Emma helpfully, from the spinny chair where she is currently spinning in, very slightly. “Even I still get lost there sometimes.”

“Really, _really_ weird,” says Amelia. “You have to prove how it works through science.”

“Um,” says Henry, weakly. “I’ll try.”

“Also,” says Amelia, “I kinda wanna look at those photo albums.”

They’re still hugging, which is still sort of weird, except it’s not really because they’re friends and friends hug and that is one of the most relieving revelations Henry’s ever had. Emma says, 

“So, I’m gonna go now that I know you still have friends.”

“Thanks, Mom,” says Henry.

“You’re really cool,” Amelia tells her, from around his shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” says Emma. 

And that’s that.

There’s still a _lot_ that he hasn’t said, that he’s not sure she’ll ever be able to get. And it’s heavy and dragging and still makes his throat clog up sometimes at night, and probably definitely the reason why he has to go home on a random Saturday in the middle of March and skip his final class of the week to do so. 

But – Henry thinks, sudden and so _completely_ relieving, that maybe over reading week if he goes home again, Amelia could come with –

They stop hugging. Henry looks at Amelia, and Amelia suddenly and very dramatically pulls a face. Considering everything that has just happened in the past hour, Henry’s stomach drops.

“W-what?”

“We’re gonna have to tell Bryce,” she groans, matter-of-fact, like this is a super normal thing to groan about on a Saturday afternoon with finals coming up, sitting in a Dorm B room in a ratty superhero t-shirt with pen stains on your fingers from drawing polypeptide chains earlier. “He’ll faint right there on the floor.”

And Henry starts laughing, loud and full-bodied and long enough that he almost falls onto the floor, and thinks about how excited he is to go through the rest of college with friends as great as his. 


End file.
